....and a baby bogan in a lowered car.

Okay kids, that's it from me, I'm outta here for a while.

Packing my bags, climbing on a plane and going to hang with my family, eat delicious food, attempt to drink my body weight in wine, laugh till my belly hurts, and then will head to an East Coast beach to drink up summer.

I hope you all have great Christmases and New Years and I will be back to torture you with beach photos soon. (Sorry all you people who are trapped in winter, but I'm nasty like that).

Oh and the title of this post? It had been my intention to do my own version of 'The Twelve Days of Christmas', I got as far as
'On the first day of Christ-mas the whitetrashneighbours gave to me
A baby bo-gan in a lowered car.'

But then I got bored and stopped .

If I wasn't such an underachiever I would makeself finish it off, but we all know I'm far too lazy for that type of carry on.

Tootle-pip.

P.S If you're really bored, you could always try this. It is the reason our office sounded like a farmyard yesterday. I am delighted to inform you that I am currently top of the table with a score 0.1882 and hold the status of rocketing rabbit.

My, did I crow about that.

The horror, the horror....

Wo oh ooh oh oh ooh oh oh ooh oh oh oh
wo oh ooh oh oh ooh oh oh ooh oh oh oh

Just


won't


go



away...

A problem shared is a problem halved.

I've got a song stuck in my head.

Firmly lodged.

This happened to Tinman the other day and he suggested that any song could be cured with 'I Will Walk Five Hundred Miles', I've tried that, but it doesn't appear to be budging.

This song has tunnelled its way deep deep into the centre of my mind and my brain is gaily playing it on high rotate.....and slowly torturing me to death.

Last week it was Prince's 'Alphabet Street' which I kind of enjoyed for the first twenty-seven times.

But not this song. I cannot stand this song. I hate the words of this song. I hate everything about this song.

If this song does not evaporate from my brain soon I'm scared I shall turn into a homicidal maniac.

Just one problem with that - I have a feeling, 'Beyonce made me do it' won't pack a whole lot of punch as far as my defence case would go.



See? She's getting to small girls as well.

I could say this would be the last time I do this, but I would be lying.

I know my mother and my big sister will most probably place a fatwa on me and start setting fire to my Christmas presents for doing this again, but I just couldn't resist-I think this photo is great.
I reckon it looks like my sister is saying, 'Pull my finger'.

I have a small brain, therefore I get small kicks out of small things.

I was having a flick through one of those fancy schmancy lifestyle magazines this morning and in the foodie section I saw a recipe for 'Chilled Cucumber Soup' and it was billed as an 'elegant dish'.

WHAT.THE.FUCK?

How on earth can you associate 'elegant' with 'chilled cucumber soup'?

All it conjured up was images of something with the consistency of wet tissues that had been soaked in cream and chicken stock. Gakety-gak.

I would be filing chilled cumcumber soup under Menus For People You Don't Ever Want to Accept Another Invitation For Dinner.

And on that note and just because I'm little Miss Gloaty Pants and have worked out how to post video, (I know I am so 2003) here is another ad I like.

Just call me Julia Child. Actually no don't. That would be too huge an insult to Julia.

It's no secret that I'm somewhat of a slug in the kitchen. I build food and I marinate stuff but there's no flour or egg and milk action in my kitchen. Unless of course we're talking about lightly dusting vegies in flour until they're roasted to within an inch of their life. Or unless my mate and her man-the-antiques-dealer are whipping up some whitebait patties, in which case the question I generally get asked is, 'Exactly how old is that flour and have any small creatures recently bought up real estate there?'

I can slap up a meal and my guests will say lots of nice things, however the more cynical of my friends will be mumbling quietly 'Yeah, just don't invite yourself around for dinner next week, cause you might find that you will be feasting on exactly the same menu.'

Despite having a very limited cooking repertoire I am going to share a recipe that is bit like the Christmas decorations - it gets pulled out and dusted off each year. I know I've already shared it with many of you, but I know there's new people visiting who won't have read about it before and besides, I'm lazy like that.

This one is an absolute winner. It's so simple it's almost criminal. It's a Richard Till creation design and he reckons it used to pay the rent in his restaurant.

Salmon Hash Browns.

You will need:
Frozen supermarket hash browns
Cream cheese
Salmon - either smoked or hot smoked or left over salmon from Christmas day
Capers
Oil and vinegar dressing which you have also hiffed some seedy mustard, fresh mint and chopped garlic into.

You will need to:
Cook the hash browns (either in the oven or the toaster). Now here's the trick - make sure they go from being soggy and light brown and get to the crispy and darker brown stage. (The one in the picture could be crispier, but it's a personal thing).
Smear over some cream cheese.
Plonk and amount of salmon on top.
Plonk a caper or two on top of that.
Drizzle over your dressing.

If you like salmon, this is to die for. Bite me, it's good.

There is something decadently luxurious about the textures.

For the last few years I have been a bit of a hobo over the Christmas/New Year period visiting friends and family scattered around various beaches, and whenever I have whipped up these I have generally had my stay extended.

I think the most satisfying time I ever had them was two years ago. A team of friends from university had gathered for New Year, and after a lengthy night of channelling our inner rock star (and not enough sleep) we eventually tucked into these late on New Year's day morning. They were sensationally perfect.

It's a big ad.

Blee! The luddite can upload video! Who-hoo! Call a public holiday!

Yes, a little overexcited.

Anyway, this ad hasn't played here, I discovered it yesterday and I think it's fab.

It looks like it could have been filmed in New Zealand.

Apparently there wouldn't have been a whole lot of change out of one and a half mill, so you'd be hoping it shifted some beer.

Show me the curveball.

I was watching Sky News this morning and I heard that Muntadar al-Zeidi, the guy who hiffed his size tens at Bush is still being held for 'questioning'.

Hmmm, call me crazy, but wouldn't they have run out of questions by now?

What make were the shoes?
What size were the shoes?
Where were the shoes made?
That was quite some throw, are you in a cricket or baseball team?
If you were aware that the President's reaction was going to be quite that swift, would have you aimed a little lower?
Were those the shoes you were wearing, or did you bring an extra pair?
In your opinion were size tens the most size appropriate shoes to hurl, i.e did you calculate the speed weight velocity of that shoe ?
Were you pleased with the result?

And having asked thoses questions I would have thought, 'Right, sick of shoes, what's for lunch?' and promptly wound the session up.




Oh hang on, is he being held for questioning or questioning ?

Sometimes it's really cool fun being a human.

The Scene.

My cousin, her husband and their two small people's house.

The Characters.

My cousin's husband (MCH) and one of their cats, Angus ( the mental one whose been on Prozac due to trying to lick all his fur off).

The Dialogue.

Angus: Meow! Meooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww!

MCH: Go away!

Angus: Meowwwwwwwwwww. Reowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

MCH: You've been fed, stop being so needy, please go away!

Angus: Meow, meow, meow.

MCH: YOU ARE JUST DOING MY HEAD IN !

Silence.

Stand off.

A few minutes later.

MCH leans forward, put his hands up so Angus can see them. Wiggles his thumbs in circles.

MCH: Hey look Angus! Opposable thumbs.

MCH: Na ni na ni na naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. I've got opposable thumbs, you haven't. Heh! Observe.

MCH picks up remote, changes channel. Sits back in chair, very pleased with himself.

Cat skulks from room.

Humans: 1
Felines: 0

Therapy, I need it.

The last few days have included: eight-five guinea pigs, two cheetah (without a wire fence in between us), thirty-five rats and a guy who (if you hacked of his left arm) was a dead ringer for Alfred from Robin's Nest.

So if you'll just excuse me, I'm off to join the circus.

But not before I go swimming with the seals.

WARNING:SOME REPEATED MATERIAL AHEAD. (Just think of this blog like a radio station, due to a limited number of songs-some tunes are on high rotate).

I have talked before about how my father is a gadget guy. Oh how he loves his gadgets. My mother on the other hand, does not.

When they were brand new state-of-the-art technology, the video recorder came home when my mother claims she didn't give him a long enough list for the supermarket. When the microwave came home, she stamped her foot and said, 'If you've bought a bloody microwave, I'm going to China!' When the breadmaker came home, she refused to lay a hand on it and he, the man who I don't think knew where the kitchen actually was, began a long career in making bread. Two breadmakers later he is still going strong. There was the first espresso machine, which was chased up by the second espresso machine, and let's not forget the coffee grinder. There's the paper shredder, ('Pop, you do realise you're not the president?'), oh and, the GPS.

His latest gadget however, rates as my favourite. A scanner that scans slides.

That's my mother holding my older sister. (My sister is a bit bigger now).

I am really digging that dress.

I am really digging that scanner.

L&P

It guts me that I am a complete luddite and that I can't manage to correctly upload videos without my computer whimpering pathetically, 'Oh, I've got a headache' and explaining away its behaviour with a meek, 'Error on page' message. WHICH I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND.


Well, pah! I can still post links.


Anyway, here's an ad that I am going to share with you. I think it's fab and it cracks me up every time I watch it.


Not sure what that says about me, but hey, go have a watch.

Where would we be without the interweb?

Hee. Someone in Perth googled 'how to get fly shit off the wall' and ended up here. Unfortunately this site would only be useful to someone who was googling, 'how to get fly shit off the wall and not break your neck while doing so.'

*Accepts there are exceptions to this rule*

In the papers over the weekend there were the big appliance stores offering deals like, 'No deposit for items over $699 and no interest for thirty months!'

Call me crazy but shouldn't they be saying, 'Hey!Buy stuff you can't afford and don't pay for it for two and half years - when you really can't afford it- and it's most probably broken anyway. I know it's a little bit mean of us but, hey, we need to move stock and we love that we can exploit the fact that you're a possibly a little bit short sighted and that you're overwhelmed by consumerism. We don't care that when you actually end up paying for it, it is most probably going to have to come out of your weekly grocery budget, because you couldn't afford it in the first place.

I know we claim we're helping you but actually, we're not. We're just helping us because as far as we're concerned we just see Christmas as a massive opportunity to convince people to buy stuff they don't need, and that just means profit, glorious profit.'

Don't you just love the festive spirit?

From the vaguely bizarre files...

I was standing at the lights today when, out of nowhere, a child came screaming up on his skateboard and stopped within centimetres of me.

I got a bit of a fright thinking, 'Shit, that child nearly took me out. Well stopped, over confident speed freak.'

Then I took a closer look.

It wasn't a child.

It was a dwarf.

Holding a leprechaun outfit.

Sometimes my lack of logic delivers me an almighty bitchslap.

Morning then, it's very early.

There's a reason the for that. My toe hurts. It woke me up.

Sigh.

Let me explain.

It is a fair to say that I have not been born the most logical person on the planet. It's almost as if, when God was wiring me up, the two logic wires were put in the wrong plugs.

Oh hang on, I don't think I can let God take the blame on that one, that sucker is all mine. 'Oh, I know it says that, technically, turquoise should go into turquoise, but it's going to be so much prettier if I put turquoise into the red one. Shag the instruction manual.'

Needless to say, I have been paying for my colour co-ordination mix-up ever since.

A little bit of evidence :

When I was a little girl I distinctly remember asking my mother why the left indicator on cars indicated that you were turning left. I thought that it should have been the other way round, when you indicated left, you should turn right.

Having said that, I wouldn't have used 'left' or 'right' in that question - I cannot tell my left from my right. I have a mole on my index finger of my left hand but unfortunately, when it totally disappears, I shall be fully screwed. Oh and don't give me any of that 'Put your hand up and make see if it makes an "L"', cause it just doesn't work.

I am quite fond of not putting dishes away where they are supposed to live. Don't ask me why, but sometimes I just like to mix it up. It's a bit like giving pots and pans a little bit of a holiday. I used to get phone calls from my ex-boyfriend, 'Kate, I can't find my big frying pan, could you give me any clues here?'

'I climbed up on the bench and put it in the very top cupboard.'

'Of course you did.'

Because I make telly, I have to deliver paper edits to an editor. Most people deliver them on a nice printout with lots of nice numbers beside neatly printed instructions. I have tortured myself in an attempt to create them like everyone else, however I have finally given up and accepted that I am just not made like that. The editors I work with are faced with decipthering these...(That's seven minutes of telly, by the way).

When I go to bed, instead of doing what normal people do and starting by turning the television off, then the lights etc etc, I like to do it backwards. I turn all my lights off, stumble through the room, locate the remote, turn the telly off last and then carefully make my way out of the room (in the dark)to the bathroom. I don't know why I do it, it's just some stupid little routine I enjoy. At least I until last night.

Cause here's the thing . And it's a really hard thing.

And when you kick it at speed, first with your toe, and then your with your knee - it becomes a really really hard thing.

The chair ended up half way across the kitchen floor and I ended up in small heap writhing in agony, clutching my toe IN THE DARK CAUSE SOME FUCKING IMBECILE INSISTS ON TURNING THE LIGHTS OUT BEFORE SHE TURNS OUT THE OTHER APPLIANCES IN THE HOUSE, CAUSE IT'S SOME CUTE LITTLE GAME SHE LIKES TO PLAY.

Honestly, when I get my hands on her, I am going to wring her illogical little neck.

Hard day at the office.

So I thought my day was vaguely strange when I was having a perfectly normal conversation with a grown woman who was dressed as a cat standing outside the supermarket.

However, the fifty something female Buddhist with flowing robes and shaven head was way out of left field.

She was kinda cool, though.

So do you think he mugged him?

Tis one of my oldest friends in the world birthday today. I rang her and she told me that six months ago she had seen some gorgeous earrings that she absolutely loved. She had shown them to her husband and, deciding she would treat herself, went back to the shop the following week to make them her own.

But when she got there she discovered that they had already been bought.

'Ohhhhhh! They've been bought by my delightful husband, haven't they?' She squealed, all excited like.

'Well', said the sales person, 'if your husband is a short Indian man then, yes, they have.'

As her husband is tall and English, she didn't go home expecting to be surprised by him bearing a small, expensive gift in the near future.

You can imagine her delight when she unwrapped said earrings first thing this morning.




Oh, how I love stories like that.

Phone call.

'Hi Kate, how are you with rats?'
'Bad.'
'Well, there's this woman who has forty pet rats.....'

Sometimes my job really scares me.

Christmas shopping

Talking to my father the other night and I asked what The Fruitcake (my mother) was up to.
'Oh, she's on the Internet looking at where she's wanting to travel to next.'
'Where's she looking?'
'Uzbekistan.'

So I know it's technically not the correct '-istan', but guess whose getting Borat for Christmas?

MEMO

FROM: GOD

TO:EARTH

RE: EPIC FAIL

______________________________________________

Dear Earth,

For crying out loud, would you lot please stop fighting and just start to get along ?

Yes, I am looking at you India, but I am also looking at you Thailand, please don't think you can hide behind India. And don't think I don't know what the rest of you are up to - I'm God, remember?

Honestly, you lot drive me to distraction, I create you a lovely place to live in with a wonderful climate (admittedly the Ice Age was a little dull, but I'd been drinking) and what do you all do?

You immediately set about killing each other and systematically destroying the planet! And you've been doing it for centuries. I could have tolerated a couple of hundred years of bad behaviour, but this is ridiculous.

Have any of you lot heard of the word gratitude?

You're all behaving like a bunch of thoroughly spoilt little upstarts, and I've had enough of it.

If you lot do not get your shit together you will force me to instigate a solar system war, nothing like a little intergalactic warfare to make you work together as a team.

You have been warned.

Love,

God.
I am God, do not fuck with me.

P.S Do you like my tag line? Catchy, isn't it? J. Walter Thompson doesn't sit round doing nothing in heaven, you know.

A compliment.

The other morning I was walking to work and a woman, who was coming in the opposite direction (and definitely on a mission to get somewhere), said hello and complimented me on my dress.

Now this dress is a floral summer number, made out of the type material that my brother Sunshine would remark, 'Been flogging Great Aunt Beryl's cushions again, then?' It's retro design, made in France and possibly makes me look like I'm off to church in the fifties. And I absolutely love it, one of those dresses that puts a wee spring in my step.

Anyway, I thanked the woman for her compliment and continued on my walk to work.

But here's the thing.

She was wearing boots that were a little shinier and a little longer than these.

She had teamed them with teensy tiny wee shorts. I can't remember what top she was wearing, but her makeup had seen better days and she looked in desperate need of sleep and the cigarette she was smoking.

But it was kind of like the obese guy saying, 'Can I have four burgers, six scoops of chips and a diet coke?' Bad analogy, I know - but you get the picture ( I am poorly attempting to draw).

Regardless, I 've never had a compliment from a hooker before. I'm taking that and running with it.

A simple solution.

I was watching breakfast news yesterday and one of the presenters was announcing one of those stories that you always hear at the this time of year (along with 'how to not put on forty kilos at Christmas time), 'And coming up we have tips how to survive the office Christmas party.'

Call me crazy, but I thought it was quite simple, 'Don't get banjaxed and make a twat of yourself.'


Or, 'Don't get banjaxed if a jolly good banjaxing is likely to make you make a twat of yourself.'

And the silly shirt award goes to....

So John Key has had his first outing as PM at APEC in Lima Peru. So APEC, Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation is an annual get together of the heads of 21 Pacific Rim countries and over the course of a couple of days they natter about the state of the world, how they'd like to redecorate and all those pressing global issues.

Each year it's hosted by a different country and when it's your country's turn there is a whole lot of brouhaha involved. It's a bit like having the flashest relies over, the house gets tidied to within an inch of it's life and all the mess is hidden away in bottom drawers and jammed into wardrobes.

But being the shallow ditz that I am, I reckon that the most outstanding thing about APEC is when, on the final day, the country's traditional costumes are handed out for all the leaders to wear. Here's a wee sample.

This is what Chile pulled out in 2004.

The Australians dressed the leaders in drizabones and Akubra hats. Here are they sans hat. And I read a caption that accompanied this photo, 'APEC leaders get expensive raincoats while Asia Pacific people get screwed by climate change.'

And here is a shot of George in Vietnam looking like he's wondering why he's wearing Laura's dressing gown.

And I am particularly fond of men in bows, as was Korea's choice of costume in 2005.This year Peru gave out tan ponchos. Apparently, according to Kevin Rudd, they are very good at hiding guns.
And this is just so you can see just how fetching John Key looked in his poncho.

I have no idea why he is already talking about selling it off for charity.

Things you really shouldn't do....

....forget that your bench is actually a bench when you are standing on it cleaning fly shit off the wall.

Excess luggage

Air New Zealand have recently brought in new luggage regulations; first bag is free (we are talking up to twenty-five kg), second bag is $15, third is $ 50, forth and fifth are $150. Which means if you travel with a lot of gear - you are going to be FULLY SCREWED by excess luggage charges.

I am sure this won't really make the slightest bit of difference to those who regularly travel with five suitcases jammed full of designer outfits. However for those poor clods like me who (for work) travel with, oh, about a pajillion different pieces of luggage, budgets are going to be seriously slammed by these charges.

Gone are the days when the nice Air New Zealand lady would assign your excess luggage kilos to other passengers who had already checked in.

I have always advocated that they should make the travellers jump on the scales along with their luggage and just allocate an overall amount of kilos your person and your luggage combined can be. (Obviously I only say this because I am a short arse and know where I could be saving myself some money).

And then I read here that the Supreme Court of Canada has ruled that obese people have the right to two seats for the price of one on flights within Canada.

Which raised a lot of questions in my tiny brain. They included:

So if you're a fattie you can fly for free but if you're a workie, you can't?Could someone please explain the logic?

Would it be possible to hide excess luggage under an enormous frock and then waddle on board?

If obese people get two seats, do they get the extra meal?

What are the wider ramifications of this ruling? I.e does that mean alcoholics get an extra crack at the bar service?

Has this ruling just opened a whole can of whoopass?

Introducing...

So New Zealand's new prime minister got sworn in on Wednesday. That's him there with his wife, Bronagh and his two children- Max and his fifteen-year-old-daughter Stephie. It has to be said that, (based on a brief wide shot in a news story) in a sea of clothes and people that sort of collectively yawned, 'meh' Stephie stood out like an obsessive compulsive on an ashram.

(She's wearing Karen Walker, by the way).

I admire him for not saying, 'For god's sake, if you ever want me to be taken seriously as the leader of this country, lose the bat and the glasses.' Or maybe he did, and she ignored him.

Regardless, I admire her for her spunk and I like her style. That's a fifteen-year-old with 'tude.

Some days, ya just gotta count your blessings.

I am so pleased that paparazzi will never ever be interested in my life.

The fact that the jury was out for so long was making me a little twitchy, however...

...they have been found guilty.

Now, if someone could organise some commerical sized driers.....

Question

Now here's a story I heard in the weekend. It involved a crew that was working one of those ooky-spooky-hokum-let's-solve-the-crime-with-psychics shows. This show gets gets regularly slaughtered by T.V critics and at the country's media awards was the butt of more than one acceptance speech joke.

I was told they auditioned more than sixty psychics across Australia and New Zealand and the crew who work on it fully believe in it. Apparently, recently they were working with one of the psychics who told one of the guys that he had trouble with his prostate and he should go and get it checked out. He did as he was told and discovered that he had the very early stages of prostate cancer.

So process that information as you will, but if they can detect prostate cancer, why the hell can't anyone find Madeleine McCann?

Would Mick Jagger let his mother drive?

So Prince Charles turned sixty in the weekend.

Happy birthday Chuck.

It's kind of weird to think that he's five years younger than Mick Jagger.

But you have to feel for him, just a tad. I mean for one, he has to survive on a paltry sixteen million pounds a year but then, the real kicker is that Mummy won't let him do the job he was born to do.

Think about it, all his life he has been told, 'When you grow up, you shall be King.'

And sixty years later, he's still waiting. Do you think he wants to sidle up to his mother and whisper in her ear, 'Err, Mother, you know that, er, King-thing lark. Don't you think it's my turn now? You must be sick of it, surely.'

'No, dear, just a few more years, when you can prove you're really grown up.'

If I was first in line for the throne, I would totally understand my parents holding out on letting me take the top job because they would know that once in power I would immediately set about ordering that the Guards of Buckingham Palace incorporate a waddle into their changing of the guard routine and hiring Ricky Gervais to write my televised Christmas message.

But it doesn't appear that Chuck has the maturity of a seven year old, so I am a little bewildered as to why Queenie isn't budging on handing the mantle over.

If driving a taxi was the family business, Prince Charles is effectively driving around in the passenger seat, with his mother at the wheel. Cause let's be honest, if you're a bloke (who likes to drive) in your twenties and your mother is driving, you're always going to be a little bit uneasy about it, cause it's not that cool. So I'm picking that after a good forty years of sitting in the passenger seat, he's starting to feel like a little bit of a plonker.

But then again, if your mother has the power to have your head chopped off, I suppose you're not going to put up too much of a fight.

Hard day at the office

Yesterday involved, planes, boats, an island and these guys.

Today I am wondering where is the bus that ran me over.

P.S Did you know that they don't have eyelids so they clean their eyes by licking them?

Now that's a party trick.

Does anyone else get the feeling that Joan's plastic surgeon really hates her?

Um, Joan, Halloween Barbie called, and she'd like her face back.

The political rainbow

One of my 'Stralian cousins emailed me wondering why in Australia, New Zealand and the UK, the main conservative party is blue(ish in the case of the UK Conservatives) and that the centre lefties are red. But that in the USA the reverse is true.

Anyone have any idea?

And The Award For Ruling The Country For The Next Four Years Goes To....

So we went, we voted, we booted the ruling red party out of parliament and the other guys in. The Sunday paper informs me that it was always going to happen, a government hasn't secured a fourth term in New Zealand for nearly forty years. Anyway, guess that means one thing - they are going to be needing a lot of masking tape and cardboard boxes in Parliament this week.

I tried to not watch the election, I really did and it worked for, oh, about three minutes. It was kind of like watching a telethon. But it took a while to get started.

The coverage on TV1, 'I'm coming to you live from the National Party headquarters in wherever they are, and so far there's a strong media contingent and a big empty room with blue ribbons and balloons.'

Over on the other channel a teensy bit later, 'We're at the National Party HQ where John Key is expected to turn up at about 10.30. Not too many people here, TVNZ is over there and that's about it so far.' Empty rooms tend to be rather dull, until the party arrives.

I remember working an election, so fresh out of journalism school that the paint hadn't even dried and, at the end of the night, filing a report from the women's toilets of the community centre to the local radio station. Oh glamorous times. I attended both party's knees-ups to get comment from candidates and seem to remember the Labour Party party was a hell of a lot more lively. And they'd lost.

And it was mildly amusing turning on the tele last night and seeing one of the print journos who was also covering the area at the time(he'd done the journo course the year before me) was being employed as a political commentator for the night. Who'd a thought all those years ago, eh? Where we'd end up? Him being asked to politically commentate this election and me, um,.....pass the nuts. Oh, I really must stop being so ambitious.

But what stayed with me from that night was coming across a car accident on the way back to work. It was on the open road and there was just one car and it was upside down. The journo in the car ahead of me immediately went to the car, and I rang 111. Then a bleeding drunk guy asked to use my phone, I had to dial it for him cause that was beyond him at that stage. He radiated alcohol and his words kept colliding into each other. He also he did a sensational job of getting blood all over the work truck, which was white.

The people in the car weren't seriously hurt but they were moaning, drunk and trapped.

In what seemed like an age (but I am sure was only about ten minutes) people in vehicles with sirens and flashing lights arrived, and we were able to leave the scene.

I would be really happy if that is the only time in my life that I am one of the first on the scene of a car accident. It was really horrible, and there are two things I will never forget about that accident, the fear that people were going to be seriously hurt and that I wouldn't be able to do anything to help them.(Yup it's all about me). I think it is an innate human instinct to want to help another human in distress and it is really disempowering and scary to not be able to help. And I will never forget that smell of burning metal.

Anyway, back to what I started talking about. That's another election done and dusted. And you know what that means? We don't have to suffer through dreary political campaigns for three more years. Yip-freaking-yee.

From the niece files.....

My sister tells me that the four year old had been running around the house shouting and observing 'My echo keeps following me'.

Red, blue or rainbow?

So New Zealand goes to the polls tomorrow. Have to say, that when your country's election follows the American election by three days it does starkly highlight the differences between the two elections. Barack spent over a billion on his campaign, and John Key, the head of the National Party, well, today he's chartered a seventeen seater plane. And I would imagine that's his campaign budget shot to pieces.

When it comes to deciding who to vote for, I spend time considering parties' policies, the state of the economy, the personalities, my personal beliefs and then I cast my vote accordingly.

However, being the shallow, fickle person I am there are some things that will make me seriously consider if I should be voting for a candidate or not. A cardboard cutout of a waving candidate smiling with a blank look in their eyes that I have to drive by every single day, regardless of whether there is an election on, will not make me vote for them. It makes me want to take a gun and use their cardboard cutout for target practice.

People waving placards with a candidate's on it, on the island of very busy intersections, will not make me vote for them.

I really don't get the psychology of it at all, do these people think I am going to be standing in the polling booth thinking, 'Now, let me see, who shall I vote for this year? Hmmmm, red, blue, green or the other ones? Oh I know! I saw those people waving those signs at the intersection. That looked like fun, I'll vote for them, goodo!'

One thing I do like about elections is that they bring out all sorts of people out of the woodwork. Polling booth people watching is sensational, you're always guaranteed to see a whole lot of crazy.
I would be almost tempted to volunteer to do it, unfortunately the reality is that I am far too lazy to do anything apart from entertain the thought.

The morning after

Ten bucks says John McCain woke up this morning and thought, 'Phhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeew, what was I thinking? I am far too old and knackered to be running a country, let alone a big one.'

But judging by this ('A Vote For My Husband Is A Vote For Me Not Breaking Your Fucking Neck') Cindy McCain is going to be one busy lady for the next twenty years, or so.

Actually, twenty years may not even cut it out, she may have to pass the mantle to mini-McCains to get the job done.

Uh oh, expectations have been raised.

So yesterday I got to wake up to the anticipation of the Melbourne Cup.
Today, there's the 'Mercian election.
And tomorrow?

When Newsreaders go bad

This is Liberty Rose Templeman.

She is fifteen and had recently had the star role in her local high school's drama production.

Two years ago she and her parents and brother moved to New Zealand from England and settled in the small Northland tourist town of Kerikeri.
Now, Kerikeri is a beautiful little town - and home to some of New Zealand's most historic buildings (remember New Zealand is a very young country) and it has a population of around the six thousand mark.

A few months ago the Templeman family moved to Auckland where her father is a property valuer and yesterday Liberty was to start at her new school, Rangitoto High School.

Except she didn't - because she was murdered in the weekend.

She had travelled up to Kerikeri to spend the weekend with friends and was last seen about
7pm on Saturday when a friend left her outside Kerikeri High School.

She is believed to have been going to walk across the school grounds and the Kerikeri Domain to meet her boyfriend at the nearby New World supermarket, where he worked.

But she did not arrive and police discovered her body on Sunday evening lying face down in a local stream.

Police have not released details of how she died, but given that someone reported hearing screams coming from the area she was believed to have been, chances are her death was horrific and it will haunt her family, friends and the local Kerikeri community for the rest of their lives.

There hasn't been a murder in Kerikeri for twenty years.

Last night I was watching the late news and the newsreader asked the reporter in the field, 'So can you tell me, what is the mood of the town tonight?'

Excuse me, but did you really say what I thought you said?

Let me see, how many ways can I answer this, 'Well, Greg, on one hand they are having on a bit of a downer because it appears an innocent popular girl was slaughtered, but on the upside there was a third division Lotto ticket sold at the local dairy so, you know, swings and roundabouts.'

Greg, the murder of an innocent teenager just occurred in tiny wee tourist town, whaddaya think the mood will be like?

THEY WILL BE BRICKING IT. And feeling sick, I should imagine.

It's the equivalent of asking these poor girl's parents, 'How are you feeling?'

Shudder, shudder, shudder.

'And tonight on State the Bleeding Obvious at Ten, we will ask questions that you already know the answer of and we also have an uncanny gift making you squirm...'

I generally always watch the competition's news and last night's broadcast just reaffirmed my viewing preference.

An Economist, I am not.

I know everyone is banging on about the recession at the moment, and it seems that hourly we're on the brink of some world financial collapse or other.

Question: if the world economy does collapse, what will it sound like?

Being the naive Pollyanna that I am, I am always looking for silver linings or good news. And today I've found a piece that I am going to share.

(Insert name of a brainy man) recently analyzed 255 examples of recessions in 17 western economies between 1871 and 2006. Nearly 65% of them lasted for one year, with the majority of them being over in two.

I know this could be a one-in-a-hundred-year-type recession, but if you're going on the law of averages, chances are things will all be peachy by this time next year.

That's my predication and I'm sticking to it.

Sigh, sometimes is really good fun being stupid.

This man's glass is so half full.

Yesterday I was on a conference call with a guy I am working with at moment, 'How are you?' I asked as I joined the call.

'Oh well', he started cheerily, 'I've had a wee stroke since I saw you (I had a meeting with him last week), so I'm a bit weak down one side, can't see out of one eye, my hand doesn't work very well and I'm not allowed to drive for a month, apart from that from that I'm just fine!'

I suppose when your year includes open heart surgery, a stroke and your fortieth birthday - every day is a good one.

I know other people's dreams are boring, but I am impossibly dull.

The other night I dreamt that I was on holiday with the family-of-four-boys-five-and-under.

And their pet panda.

Yes. You read that right.

Their larger than life pet panda. He was built like a brick shithouse: think Jonah Lomu, double him in size, chop off his legs, imagine concrete has a high nutritional value and understand that is his food of choice, add some razor sharp long ninja-like claws, now cover him in black and white fur and you'll start to get the picture.

Needless to say I was a little dubious about this panda. Especially as I needed to get past him to get a book to read to one of the boys, and he also had his eye on one of the books.

'Don't worry about him, he's harmless,' assured Father-of-four-boys-five-and-under.

But I knew otherwise, I knew that that panda had the ability to turn me into sashimi or gently squash me to death and get out of it by it by claiming he was only giving me a bear hug.

And then the dream ended.

I text the short version of the dream to the Mother-of-four-boys-five-and-under.

'Were we having a nice holiday?' She text back.

'You were having a lovely old time. But I wouldn't trust that bear as far as I could kick the fucker.' I replied.

Last night I was around the Family-of-four-boys-five-and-under and Mother-of said to me, 'Oh my god, you have no idea what the five year old came home with.'

She said he came home from school yesterday, 'Mummy, Mummy - look what I did today!'

Yup, you guessed right.

It was a picture of that panda bear.

And the five year old hadn't heard about my dream.

That bear is messing with my head.

Why ?

I am not for the death penalty, but in the case of Nia Glassie , I think a bullet to the brain would be far too humane a punishment for those responsible for her death.

This three year old died as a result of injuries after basically what was a life of horrific abuse that allegedly included being shut in a clothes dryer for up to twenty minutes and hung from a washing line until she fell off, while the adults sat around and laughed.

Two brothers -21 and 18- are being charged with her murder and a 17 year old and a 19 year old are charged with manslaughter. They are also facing separate charges of abusing two other children. Nia's 35 year old mother faces two counts of manslaughter, the first for failing to provide medical treatment and the second for failing to protect her from violence.

Her grandfather has also been separately charged with assaulting and injuring Nia.

The court case is running at the moment and yesterday a witness told the court he saw a young girl being thrown on to a clothesline in an "overarm cricket throw" by one of the accused. Another witness told how he saw her being "slam dunked" on the ground.

Today a neighbour told the court that she would hear lots of "loud, abusive" screaming coming from the house where Nia lived in and sometimes the little girl would come and sit on her doorstep. On the occasions that she gave her food, she would take it and run away without saying anything.

I don't care what people say about rehabilitation, I fail to see the point on spending a cent on trying to rehabilitate these people. Strip them of every human right they have, give them a life of brutally hard labour in solitary confinement, do not let them have any contact with their family, oh and pop them in a commercial sized dryer until their heads start to bleed and they cry out for mercy, to give them a taste of their own actions.

Monsters.

Update: An email from my cousin in Australia regarding this post, she suggested slowly cooking them in oil as an appropriate punishment. I'm liking the cut of her jib.

And I didn't even get wet.

Well it's been a big old ten days, they've included: four trips to the airport (three to get on planes, and one for a pick up), wondering as I jumped from a yacht (see below) to a chaseboat 'I really hope my legs are following me', birthday cake and that food of the Gods - whitebait patties, courtesy of my cousin.

The story goes that my grandfather, as a small boy, once instructed a poor soul in their household who didn't have a clue what to do with a fresh catch of them, that she had to gut them and prick their eyes out with a needle.

I am not sure how many she got through before being rescued by my great grandmother.

Yours, potentially drippily....(my new word)....

Am about to head of town on a job for a couple of days. But part of the job means I get to have a blast on one of these guys.

Giddy-up.

Having said that, I am vaguely concerned how we (literal translation: I) are going to alight from one of those vessels onto a chaseboat mid-sail - without coming a huge cropper.

All I can say is the fact that we weren't blessed with hindsight is possibly a good thing, right now.

I knew him pre-dash.

I am really enjoying this track right now.

I interviewed the guy nearly ten years ago, when he was an emerging artist.

'And can I just get the correct spelling of your name?'

'P.'

'As in, just the one?'

'Yes.'

'Okay.'

'And Money. M-O-N-E-Y.'

'Great, think I can cope with that.'

Sigh.

If anyone would like any pointers or lessons in How to be Seriously Uncool, feel free to ask.

Ancestral Ghosts

When my family arrived in New Zealand from the other side of the world about six or so generations ago, one lot arrived at the bottom of the country and the other lot (I had previously thought) had pitched up in Gisborne (beach pictures before Posh's shoes).

I do feel sorry for the lot who arrived at the bottom end of the country, they left a bleak cold climate under the illusion that they were heading for tropical climes and, after more than three grim months at sea, they rocked at a place that was host to, pretty much, a bleak old climate (apart from summer that lasts for four days in February).

I am sure many of them would have thought, 'shag this' and then suppressed overwhelming desires to leap back aboard the ship as it made its return journey. My (insert-'many') great grandfather thought 'jeez I'd love a beer' and then went about brewing some - and they, more or less, stayed living around the bottom of the South Island.

I had been under the illusion that the other side of the family had rocked up at Gisborne and thought, 'I'd kill a roast meal' and then set about farming many many many roast meals in the making.

Is there a point to this story, you ask? Kind of, I am getting to it, just taking the scenic route.

With my work, I tend to travel all over the place. And I reckon you always get a sense of a place. Some places you feel real attachments to, and I have always put it down to the fact that it is because of the memories associated with them. I grew up in the North Island but I have a real connection with parts of the lower half of the South Island as lots of holidays were spent there and there are many stories associated with the ancestors all over the place. I have always had a connection with Gisborne as I spent a lot of time there with friends, over the years and ditto re: stories about those who went before us.

But there is a little settlement about an hour and a half from where I live and every time I go through it I have always felt a connection with it. And it's weird, cause there is absolutely no reason for me to feel anything apart from indifference about this place. I have never spent any time there and have not one memory to attach with it. Every time I have gone through it I have always said to whomever I have been travelling with, 'Don't know what it is about this place, but I have always felt strangely comfortable here.'

When my father was staying the other week I was quizzing him about the family history and I was remarking what a great place Gisborne would have been to sail on in to. Apart from the fact that it's a pig of a place to get to from any major city (not that that would have been a major concern over a hundred years ago - everywhere was a pig a of place to get to, then) it's got a great climate, great beaches, great... well, pass me the farm.

And then my father told me that his family hadn't started out in Gisborne at all, they had actually moved to Gisborne.

I asked where they first lived, on arrival in the country.

I don't need to tell you what he said, do I?

Yup, my strangely comfortable place.

And fair-suck-of-the-sav, I had not heard of that piece of information until it came out of his mouth.

Kind of spooky, in a strangely reassuring way.

Either that, or a complete coincidence.

I didn't get Madonna's but I don't get these even more....

Five words.

LET US OUT OF HERE!

What on earth did Posh's feet do to her to deserve this?

Friday's photos.

It's rubbish day today.

Really pleased I'm not a rubbish collector, it'd be a really stinky job and I'd be really useless at it.

And on that note I am going to leave you with pictures of one of my very favourite beaches in the world. It's north of Gisborne. Miles from anywhere and it's about as back to basics as you can get, no running water, you have to dig your dunny ('you' meaning 'the other people I stay there with', cause lets be honest, if digging the dunny was left up to me there'd a be a long queue of busting people.)

We first started going at when I was university, we all used to either hitch, bus, or pray that our old cars would last the schelp to get there. We also swore that it would be where we were going to see the Millennium in (when Millennium seemed a really long time away) and, when it rocked round, true to most people's word, there was a bunch of us gathered from over five countries, one lot of people opting to arrive by helicopter instead of a car.

The day's activities generally include swimming, fishing, eating, drinking and taking the piss out of each other. (Like the guys who arrived in the helicopter. Or the guy who turned up to a place with no power with a microwave pizza. For years after that we were so merciless in our piss-taking of him that for the Millennium he turned up with a power generator and a microwave)

I do think this is the only place that when, on being offered more crayfish, I have said, 'Please go away, because if I eat anymore I think I am going to vomit.'

Howdy partner.

Apparently, at the other end of these shoes, you would have found Madonna - if you were at the premiere of her movie 'Filth and Wisdom' in NYC.

Don't know about you, but I just don't get them.

What would you do in that situation?

Today I bumped into a guy I used to go to university with. I think the last time I saw him was about ten years ago when I bumped into him in a cafe. It was one of those vaguely awkward bumpings-into when, even though you used to know each other really well, you know that chances are that you no longer have that much in common apart from some old shared experiences.

'You're looking well.' He says.

What do you say to that? He could have meant it or it could have just as easily be a euphemism for 'Jeez you're looking a bit rough, love.'

I say this because I brightly said, 'So are you!' (Which was a euphemism for 'Where has all your hair gone?)

This is the guy who, in our first year at varsity, attempted to drive his scooter by standing on the seat (I wouldn't recommend you try that at home). Needless to say the scooter won that competition by a country mile and my mate woke up in hospital possessed by a grumpy old Scotsman.

For an entire week.

Fortunately the Mr Scottish Grumpy eventually left the building, and my friend has no recollection of him ever being there, or how he became possessed but it was certainly one of the more bizarre weeks.

Anyway, our conversation today was kind of littered with pregnant pauses as neither of us wanted to be ruthless enough to say, 'Okay nice to see you and we both know we don't need to organise to catch up, cause in our heart of hearts we know we don't have much to talk about.'

Except he is more polite than me and he said, 'I should get your number so we don't just keep on bumping into each other in cafes.'

I wrote it down for him, handed it over and we went our separate ways.

Ten bucks says he threw it in the bin after he got back to work.

Muscat, anyone?

So my father has been down for work and was staying with me. On Friday he was sitting at his computer and called me over to show me something.

I went over and was staring at the page and I saw words like, 'can get passport' and 'foreign money' and my initial thought that he was on a site for fake passports and counterfeit money (he is an arms dealer, after all).

After a moment the words stopped colliding into each other and started to make sense.

It was his invitation to his work conference.

In Greece.

Two words.

Jammie and bastard.

Recipe for the day.

Earlier this week I was saying that curiosity is one of the most underrated human traits.

It got me thinking that gravy was the cuisine equivalent to curiosity. But a little research reveals that it's not that underrated, a guy called Dave Axworthy from Nova Scotia legally changed his forename to Gravy because he was infatuated with the stuff. And in Australia you can get yourself some gravy flavoured chips. (I remain a little dubious about those).

If you want the one of the best gravys in the world, make this roast. It's Richard Till's recipe. And oh my that gravy is sensational, the onions, oh the onions. You could throw away the meat and just drink the gravy.

Ingredients

1 leg of hogget.
3 lg onions
½ bottle of red wine, plus some more for gravy.
Salt and pepper
Flour for gravy

Method

This is important! Slice onions into thin crescents. Slices from top to bottom rather than across into half rings. The onions break down, sweeten and brown much more easily when cut this way.
Make a bed of onions in the roasting pan.
Season onions with 1 ½ tsp salt.
Place leg on onions.
Tip over ½ a bottle of red wine.
Cover and seal tightly with foil.
Put into 160 C for 5 hours.
Loosen the foil in a corner, to allow steam to escape, for the last hour.

Gravy

Method

Take meat from pan, cover and rest in warm place.
Carefully tip of excess fat, but leave some in the pan to brown the flour in.
Put on an element and add flour (about 4 Tbl)
Cook, stirring and taking great care that nothing starts to burn in the pan, for a minute, until the flour is cooked, then add water and a cup of red wine.
Simmer, check seasoning, tip into gravy boat and lick pan.

Serving

Meat will cut with a blunt spoon.

You're welcome.

I like this.

This ad went up when Murder Burger in Ponsonby Road, Auckland were looking for staff a month or so ago. If you don't have an industrial strength magnifying glass beside you and want to read it, click the image. My particular favourite paragraphs are the ones talking about the people who they don't think should apply for the job.

'The sorts of people who we don't think would be good for us.

Political students. Nothing personal, we just don't understand you.

P. Addicts. Again, nothing personal, it's just that the benefit of being able to work seven shifts in a row is pretty much outweighed by the probability that one day you will flip, grab a knife, and become Mr Stabby.'

The staff wear t-shirts that say 'Meat is Murder'. Needless to say, they are not a vegetarian burger outfit.

Question.

Last week I went to the dentist for a check up.

Mr Dentist discovered I had a hole that needed to be filled.

So I went back this morning, endured all sorts of discomfort, had my mouth filled with weapons of mass destruction in order to have said hole filled.

If you're trying schedule a really horrible day it would start, 8.30 a.m. Dentist appointment. 9.30 Important meeting that you haven't prepared for. 11 a.m. Meeting with the accountant. And your day would slowly disintergrate from there.

But the thing that gets me is that I had to pay the equivalent of a decent pair of shoes for the priviledge of all this dental horribleness.

How does that work ?

Shouldn't dentists being paying us?

Curiosity, there's a lot going for it.

Curiosity. Of all the human traits I think this is one that is thoroughly underrated. I'm not talking about being nosey - I think nosiness is driven by a nasty motivation, whereas curiosity involves being inquisitive, exploring, investigating and learning.

I know that curiosity killed the cat - but have you heard of the come back line to that proverb?

Satisfaction brought it back. ( I am not sure if the cat is still dead at this stage, or not.)

Now, my fruitcake mother is a very cool lady. My brother, sister and I lucked in. All my friends throughout my life rate her as do my brother's and sister's friends. One friend of mine went and stayed with my parents when he started his first job as a lawyer, he was going to stay for a week and left three months later (and later repaid the favour by shouting me a return flight London to Chicago! Result! All I did was lend out my parents). And today all of our friends will go and visit our parents when we aren't there. All her nieces and nephews think she is a rock star, as do her grandchildren.

My mother often shows me up as the slack friend that I actually am, recently one of my oldest friends had a terrible time and ended up spending about four weeks in hospital. We live in different islands, so she got regular phone calls from me - but got regular letters from my mother.

Letters? Remember what they were?

Anyway, I was thinking what it is that makes her so cool. She is: kind, thoughtful, naughty, funny, she doesn't judge, she is wise, she can be delightfully insane, she is self deprecating, she knows so much about the world, she doesn't impose her views and opinions on others and will respect an opposite argument even though she doesn't agree with it, but when I really think about what makes our mother so unique is that she is incredibly curious.

She is so curious about the world and the ways people live. She is interested in the people she meets and fascinated as to why they are the way they are. It's not a judge thing, it's an understanding thing. 'So why do you think like that? What is your story? Oh, you look interesting, tell me your back story.' This is the woman who would rather get a bus than a taxi so she can look at all the people. Honestly, park the woman up at an international airport in the arrivals lounge and she would be so excited about what she was seeing, she would forget to eat.

That's why I wasn't surprised when she told me that she was attending a series of university lectures for the 'third age'.

'What, university for old bastards?'

'Yes darling, and there are some that are about hundred and three. They're the ones who sit up the front and ask all the questions.'

Bloody mature students, no matter what age they are, they always sit up that front and make the slackers down the back look bad.

I asked her what exactly were these lectures she was attending.

'Ohh' she said, her voice full of anticipation and delight, 'I've never understood the Middle Eastern situation and its history so I'm going to a series of lectures about it from various different perspectives: religious, political,geo social....' And then she started saying words I didn't understand and I stopped listening.

'So once you've done these will you be able to tell me if there will ever be peace in the Middle East?'

'From the way it's going I think we will be holding hands across an electric fence hoping no one will turn the current on. That's not an entirely accurate analogy but it means I don't know what will happen and I don't think they do, either. What I do know is that it's going to be fascinating - if I can remember what any of the lecturers say. That's going to be the interesting thing.'

I do like the way her brain works.

We'll have it up in a jiffy.

I took these photos in Sicily, a couple of years ago.

Can't imagine they have changed much, since.

When came to building Big Stuff That Will Last For Centuries, they kind of had it down pat.

Somehow (the loss of human life and all, aside) pyramids and colosseums seem so much cooler than sky scrapers.

Oh yes, it's all about me.

A friend in England recently sent me this to read.

It's an article by Times columnist Carol Midgely and it starts like this, 'Sometimes I need only glance at the title of a book and immediately I hate the author. This is because it is such a brilliant idea that I wish I'd thought of it myself but didn't get round to it because I was too busy checking the Coronation Street website or wondering whether I should put another wash on.

It's the same now with Richard Wilson, whose new book Can't Be Arsed: 101 Things Not To Do Before You Die makes me want to kick my own backside around the room until it's black, blue and begging for mercy.

Why didn't I write this book?'

She then goes on to compile her own list of 'Can't Be Arsed - 29 Things That I Couldn't Give a Toss If I Never Did Again. Why 29? I couldn't be fagged thinking up 30.'

Mr T suggested I should compile my very own list which, naturally, filled me with glee. I am going to change the list a little to 'Can't be Arsed - Things I Can't be Arsed Doing - or Doing Again.'

So in no particular order, here we go.

1. GST returns. Help. Me. Someone. Every two months they drag around with monotonous regularity and it's only the thought of the fine that drags me to my desk to do it. Yes, I could pay someone to do this task for me (errm, possibly should pay someone), but it's a bit like eating your broccoli - I am sure it's good for me, somehow.

2. Eating chicken. I really can't see the point. I am mostly a fish and vege girl anyway but, if I have to, could you pass me the freshly dead lump of red meat. At least it tastes of something. Chicken - nup. I am sure this will be of absolutely no help to me whatsoever when I die and discover the afterlife is run by chickens.

'Please be nice to me, I didn't really eat you.'

'Yeah, only because you claimed we tasted like shite. You're spending eternity at Club Battery Farm.'

3. Being P.C about children's playgrounds. Why are schools insisting on wrapping playgrounds up in cotton wool so the wee darlings don't hurt themselves? Pur-lease. Let them learn how to fall. We did.

4. Being P.C about winning and losing for kids. If you come first, you win. Simple. If you didn't, you didn't win. Deal with it. My six year old niece recently came last at her cross country. She knows that if you're smallest in your class by at least three boat lengths, chances are you're not going to win the cross country. (She didn't care about coming last, the thing she was upset about was that she didn't win any points for her house, which I thought was beautiful.)

5.Bungy jumping. Never have, never will. Been offered free ones on many occasions but always gratefully declined. Call me crazy, but the thought of hurling myself of a bridge with an elastic band tied to my feet puts the fear of God into me. It just sort of goes against every natural instinct. And those screams you hear? The first screams are fear 'Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggghhhhhhhh'.

Loose translation, 'IamgoingtodieIamgoingtodieIamgoingtodieIamgoingtodie!'

The second lot of screams after the bounce?

'Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggghhhhhhh!'

Loose translation, 'IamnotgoingtodieafterallIamnotgoingtodieafterall!Iamtheluckiestpersonontheplanet,Icheateddeath!'

I really don't need to put myself through that.

6. Going to do exercise. So can't be arsed going to do it. However the feeling after doing it regularly drags my sorry arse off the sofa and out the door.

7. Seeing Mamma Mia. I have talked about the horror associated with enduring twenty minutes of this film, before. And I don't want to talk about it again. Please go away, memory. Delete, delete, delete.

8. Sleeping in a tiny wee ger, on the ground in deepest Mongolia, in the middle of winter with eight Mongolians, four of us and two mismothered baby goats. Never before has goat stew seemed so appealing. Those goats owe me a night's ( baaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ) sleep. It's lucky our hosts knew not a word of English and therefore had no idea what, 'I would like to wring those fucking goats' necks,' meant.

9. Eat/drink anything coffee flavoured unless it's hot and wet and just coffee. OtherwiseI don't get it.

10. Spend thirty-six hours flying (via three different countries) to a country because you have a deal with an airline, when there's a seven hour direct flight available with the competition. That is simply not fun.

11. Celebrate New Year's Eve. Admit it, the evening would be much more fun if it wasn't New Year's Bloody Eve.

12. Bored yet?

13. Saving the planet. Oh well, I will do my bit if I have to, but it's just kind of dreary.

14. Winter.

15. Suffer through the political campaign before our next general election. We're faced with months of politicians' election promises. Please understand that Wikipedia defines a promise 'whereby the first person undertakes in the future to render some service or gift'.

I think election promises should be defined as , 'saying shit to make you vote for them, but with absolutely no guarantee of actually carrying them out.'

Okay, I will stop there. I've just seen the time and if I don't stop now, I could be here for days.

Tootle-pip. Please feel free to add to my list.

Ol' Blue Eyes

'Paul Newman's died.'

'Why? What was wrong with him?'

'He had cancer and he was eighty-three. Apart from that, he was fine.'

No prizes for who I was in that conversation. (The person not in possession of all the relevant information).

For me, Paul Newman will always be the guy in 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.' I loved that film, but it's one of those ones I am a bit scared to see now as I suspect that I will feel a little disappointed. It's a bit like candy floss - tastes great if you're a kid, but as an adult you feel like you are eating a sugar steelo pad.

I was a big fan of 'Raindrops Keep Falling on Your Head' and an even bigger fan of the Manic Street Preachers' version of it.

Friday's revelation

Wondering what I was going to post today.

Then decided I could always share with you something you may not know.

I have pink arms.